


Frank Castle Drabble Collection No. 1

by Noccalula



Category: Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Blowjobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Drabbles, F/M, FaceFucking, Female Vigilante, Gen, Light Dom/sub, Minor Original Character(s), Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, Requests, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, tumblr requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noccalula/pseuds/Noccalula
Summary: From the same questionable mind that brought you A Glass To Easy Choices, a composite of the Tumblr-requested Frank Castle drabbles, ranging from smutty to not-so-much. Tags constantly evolving.





	1. Rescued

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop me a line - http://noccalula-writes.tumblr.com
> 
> Since so many of you enjoyed A Glass To Easy Choices, I decided to expand out my Frank repertoire.

[Tumblr anon requested](http://noccalula-writes.tumblr.com/post/168241041678/could-you-do-a-frank-castle-story-with-him-being): " _Could you do a Frank Castle story with him being saved by a female vigilante? If you have the time!_ "

 

**I see your female vigilante request and raise you TWO female vigilantes!**

 

~~~

 

With the flames of the warehouse fire licking at his face, growing ever closer as the heat went from uncomfortable to stifling and would soon arrive at unbearable, Frank contemplated if he had enough strength in his arm to get his side-piece, put it to his temple, and avoid burning to death the only way he could imagine right now.

In the haze of blood loss – bullets’ll do that to you, no matter how much experience you have taking multiples, if they’re placed just right – the edges of his vision were blurred. He could feel the seven-pound hammer of his heart pounding so hard and slow he could hear it in his own ears, the adrenaline buzz of his dying body making his hands shake. His gun. He could reach down, take it and end all of this, maybe be back with Maria?

No. Frank could lie through his teeth but he knew in his heart of hearts that if there was anything after this, people like him don’t go to the same places as people like Maria. Or at least he hoped.

He had to crawl. That was it. Crawl out. He could feel the heat on his skin becoming nigh unbearable as he rolled onto his stomach with a grunt and a hiss, glistening ruby red in puddles leaking out of his clothing, from behind his near-punctured Kevlar. It had kept him from being shot dead but of course, it only covers so much, and tonight Frank drew the unluckiest hand he’d had dealt to him yet. Trembling, he pulled himself onto his elbows and began what he hoped was enough of an Army crawl to get him away from the fire, maybe out onto the sidewalk. Maybe someone would see him. Maybe someone would shoot him.

No.

Frank had shot everyone inside, and he knew what was coming if he didn’t get out.

He was going to die alone in a burning warehouse, leave the mess of his legacy in the hands of Karen and Micro. Leave them a battlefield of emotional scars from his mere proximity to spend the rest of their lives sorting out.

By the third pull forward against the concrete a blinding pain had seized Frank somewhere in the chest, making him cough and sputter and halting his slow slug-like escape to near nothing. The fire was burning so close he could see the flames now, even through the blur of his vision. A dying animal on the floor of a burning building, bleeding rivers – that’s all he was now.

His forehead thunking to his forearm, Frank heaved a hard breath. Maria. Maria, Maria, Maria. Dancing in the kitchen. Singing in the car. Crying on the phone. Asking him if he was ever going to be done with the war. _No, baby. I’ll never be done. I’m so sorry. I’ll never be done. I’ll be loading cartridges in hell. There is no peace for me._

Beneath the anger, the resentment of it ending this way was some bone-deep resolution, a tired so tired that there was no name for it. “Exhaustion” didn’t cut it. A chunk of himself already resigned itself to the fast approaching end, and Frank blinked away the stinging sweat in his eyes as he tried with all his might to turn the rest of himself over to it. _Don’t fight. It’ll be easier if you just don’t fight. You’re done, soldier. You’re done._

He almost missed the clap of footsteps, the coughing and cursing that sounded so distant and high, until someone grabbed the scruff of his vest and began to pull him along the pavement.

Instinctively, he reached for the gun at his side – whoever they are, time to kill them – and found the holster empty. When had he lost that goddamn gun?! His grunts of anger became gurgles of protest but the heat on his skin began to dissipate, a breeze from the cool outside tickling through his hair and across the wet blood on his face, his arms. He took a ragged breath – clean air. Two people were pulling him, he could hear two sets of feet, see two pairs of boots in the fuzzy edges of his vision. His head lolled to the side as he tried to hear them through the ruckus of the roaring fire, the city sounds.

His vision cleared for only a moment, and he saw on either side of him a pair of combat boots and a pair of Harley motorcycle boots, both dirty and worn.

Funny, he thought right before the bottom dropped out and he lost consciousness. They almost looked like women’s shoes.

~~~

When the world came back into focus after a blessed length of coal-black sleep, Frank cracked through the crust on his eyelids and blinked away the sleep, smacking his mouth to find a taste this side of roadkill. However long he’d been out had been a while. He raised one arm to wipe across his face but searing pain in his shoulder kept him from raising it too high, made him grunt.

Bandages. The crinkle of the plastic first caught his attention but when he looked down at himself, he’d been carefully bandaged. An IV ran into his left arm, the needle crudely taped to his skin. 

 “He’s awake.”

Though he couldn’t roll on his side, Frank turned his head enough to see one figure standing at a counter in what looked like yet another shitty warehouse, her hair in a tangled knot at the back of her head. Combat boots. Black jeans. Tattoos everywhere. She watched him sidelong, face giving away no emotion, and cleared her throat.

“Did you hear me? I said he’s awake.”

The thunk-thunk-thunk of careful steps towards him drew his gaze down and he instinctively went for a gun at his hip, finding not only that he was unarmed but that his reach was about an eighth as fast as he wanted it to be. Gritting his teeth when the same searing pain set in, he watched as a curvier woman came and crouched down some five feet away, perching her elbows on her knees and tilting her head as she looked at him, the curtain of a substantial amount of long, curly hair spilling to the side.

He stared at her face, not recognizing her in the slightest and knowing he probably wasn’t going to, blinking those coal-dark eyes at her as she curled a smile that was surprisingly warm at him.

“So this is the Punisher, huh?”


	2. Facefucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the title says. 
> 
> Tumblr anon asked: _For adding onto the Frank Castle x Reader tag, facefucking? I've taken up at least an hour of my day thinking about this scenario tbh_

“Breathe.”

He orders it, and you remember that yes, right, that’s an important thing you need to be doing. Your head is throbbing – you can feel the punch of your pulse in time with the thrumming in your clit – and your eyes are running tears now as you gag again around the truly fucking delectable girth of Frank’s cock, the head now at the back of your throat. He’s got your ponytail wrapped around his fist but he doesn’t keep it there for long, letting the length of hair slip like a fish in a stream over and over his palm as he grabs and releases, pulls and relents in time with his ministrations.

“Good girl,” he growls when you don’t pull off, working through the burn as you spill spit down your chin for the thousandth time, and you feel that burning in your cunt that reminds you you’ve still got a-ways to go before yours is coming.

That’s half the appeal.

The other half is you down on your knees between Frank’s wide-spread ones, his posture slouched back into the chair just enough that he can curl a bit to watch you like a goddamn surveillance camera, all black-lens eyes. Blank. Unreadable. Until those flickers of aggression cross his face he looks as impassive as he would if he were staring at you while you filed your nails, almost nothing of the give for how far down your throat he’s thrusting until he hits That Place, whatever inside of him starts to break away the façade. God, you love watching that happen – his jaw clenches, you see the veins near his temples start to throb, he even mutters to himself so low and nasty that you can’t even make out what he’s saying, all the while those eyes fixed on you like there’s nothing else on this spinning earth.

Your red-flushed face, sweat matting your loose strands of hair across your forehead, your smearing eye makeup – he takes it all in, and in return, he makes you take it all in. All the way down.

“Breathe through your nose,” he orders again and you huff out a breath, choking noises deep in your throat nudging at the head of his cock. You feel him twitch, throb in your wide-open mouth, lips curled carefully to keep him off your teeth – not that he seems to care when he gets scraped.

You nod and bob simultaneously, making him groan – _finally,_ the fucking sound of it making you drip on the carpet – and both his hands card into your hair, slide to the back of your head.

“Alright, nice and deep,” he growls and you know it’s an order, not a request, “Do it without gagging and I’ll give you a break.”

Your cunt is throbbing and you want nothing more than to slip two fingers into the slick heat and get yourself some relief but you’re going to be a good girl tonight. You slip your hands up onto his thighs to brace yourself so you’ve got some resistance, one of his much larger mitts going to the crown of your head while the other cradles the back. You’re ready. You’re so fucking ready.

After all, this was your kink. He’s come to love it, but it was you who took him through the paces the first time, weathering his near-constant need for reaffirmation of your consent. Frank is nothing if not thorough and he made it a mission to learn your limits, the ones you wanted him to push and the ones to leave the fuck alone. If you slap his thigh three times, all this stops.

But you’re not slapping shit; you’re in fucking heaven. This is exactly what you wanted.

Those thick, cut arms snatch your head back until he’s buried to the balls, cock nearly down your throat and before you can adjust he’s thrusting hard, holding your head in that iron grip while he fucks your mouth rough and fast. Your moans are chopped into gurgles and chokes but you curl your fingers, nails digging into his jeans, and arch how he tilts you as his hips lift just a little from the chair. His whole body is tense, that jaw clenched hard as he snorts out huffed breaths like a bull in front of a red flag. He’s flushed and sheening with sweat and you swear your mouth is watering from more than your gag reflex, his balls smacking against your chin.

“Fuck,” he hisses, still fucking your face with that relentless cadence, “Almost, almost…”

With that, he presses hard on the back of your head to choke you again, making you sputter bubbles of spit up around his shaft and if your throat wasn’t currently obstructed by the biggest cock you’d ever seen, you’d be purring moans. Used. Degraded. Perfect. If you could touch your clit you’d come immediately.

You can taste his cum on the back of your tongue, just enough to know it’s just the prelude and not the mouthful you know is coming, and the rawest noise you can make vibrates around his flesh. He gasps, snarls, pulls you roughly off his cock as spit runs down your chin.

“FUCK,” he exhales, mouth hanging slack, as beautiful and awful as he’s ever looked as he grabs your jaw firmly with one hand, “What a little fuckin’ slut…”

Your voice is so raw that the moan that pulls out of you breaks into jagged rasps of pleasure, your lips spread wide in a smile before he takes that free hand and shoves two fingers in your mouth, pressing down your tongue and sliding so far back you gag again.

The slap of his palm against your cheek is sharp and sudden no matter how little of his actual strength went into it. It makes your breath catch as you gasp, that open mouth the invitation he was looking for and before you know it, he’s sliding the head of his cock over your tongue, back back back until you’re swallowing him down to the balls again, bottom lip slipping wet over his sac. Those hands tighten around your head, one back in your ponytail, and he thrusts hard and fast into your mouth, into your throat, as you feel his thighs go to granite-hardness and the telltale jerking of his motions gives you just a moment to get ready.

He seethes through his teeth and growls so low you feel the vibrations in your aching pussy when he spills down your throat.

Almost instantly that insistent hardness begins to soften and he carefully, mindfully slips himself back out, holding your head much more gingerly. The button has been pressed and he’s Mindful Frank again.

“Open your mouth,” he near mumbles, his own voice strained but pleased, “Lemme see.”

You rest your hands back on your own trembling thighs and stick out your white-coated tongue.

“Fuck,” he says for the umpteenth time but so much gentler, tracing a thumb under your eye to wipe away running mascara, “Thank you. Swallow.”

Given that this is one of your favorite parts, you do so with aplomb, sticking out your tongue afterward for confirmation.

Finally all two hundred-plus pounds of him collapses back into the chair, making it squeak in protest, and he rubs a hand over the sliver of abdomen his ridden-up shirt exposes. Tilting his head to look at you, he smiles just that little bit that makes you weak in the knees even when fully clothed; that half-smile that wrecks your entire life, only wide and bright when he’s caught off guard.

“Well,” he offers through that smirk, “How ‘bout you lay back on that bed and let me repay the favor? Can’t choke me on it but you can fuckin’ try to drown me in it.”

Though it’s a breech of the submissive, sweet role you love playing with him, you burst out laughing, and he laughs too.

 

 


	3. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: _I was just wondering if maybe you could do a bit of primal doggy style with frank? With the spanking and a bit of fingers in mouth, maybe choking and a bit of blood play as well (if you want of course)? Maybe Frank just came back from a night out and NEEDS a bit of animalistic loving THANK YOU_
> 
> I only really put a nod to blood play in here but I assure you it'll probably show up elsewhere.

There have only been three encounters between you and Frank and after every single one of them, he says there won’t be another.

He says it’s fucking stupid to be anywhere near him, that just because he was desperate the first night you met and you happened to be a vet tech with a good stitching hand and access to the decent meds does not mean you need to get accustomed to the taste of adrenaline in your routine. There will be no midnight calls, no banging on your door at ungodly hours. No showing up at the back door of the clinic where you barely make more than minimum wage, bleeding and wild-eyed. His usual night nurse, whoever they were, would be back from wherever they had gone soon enough. He never should have come back after the first time.

He’s told you three times that if it all goes according to plan, you’ll never see him again. He comes, makes sure you came if you haven’t already, pulls on his boots and he goes.

It’s been a month. You’re wondering if he was telling the truth. He doesn’t seem like a man who lies on purpose or period, really. You wonder if he was angry that fate kept smashing the two of you into the same place at the same time or if it was self-directed, if he kept pointing his big black boots in the direction you were and resenting himself for it.

I mean, catastrophic head injury. PTSD. Trauma. You’re an animal medic, not a people medic, but you do understand some things about all of this.

The last time he sandwiched you between himself and the wall, mindful of pressure against your head but otherwise fucking you recklessly and rough while the neighbors on the other side screeched complaints. You were sure it would be the last time. His stitches had opened up during and blood was spread all over his torso, your back and ass, the wall. This should have horrified you; instead you came so hard your legs couldn’t hold you up afterwards.

Frank Castle had stared at you with those bottomless pit eyes and told you that was it. Good luck. Take care of yourself. It wasn’t warm but it wasn’t a lie either – he wouldn’t have said a word if he didn’t give a shit that you lived on normally.

So why, then, is he standing in the doorway of your apartment like a vampire that needs to be let in with an awful burning in his eyes and fresh bruises blossoming across his body?

You stare back at him. The two of you are locked in a silence as dense as oil until he glances down the hall at an opening door and you know he needs to come inside before he’s seen.

It’s been years since he was exposed again. Years since he took Karen Page hostage in a hotel to escape, however many holes that stupid story had in it when the press got ahold. Even more time since the shit that set all this in motion. However he’s managed, The Punisher has evaded detection this far and certainly not by laying low as his frequent life-threatening injuries confirm. He’s clearly fresh off a doozy of a night right now, judging by looking at him.

You nod him in and he quickly shuts the door, you moving behind him to chain the lock and pull the bolt while he peels off his jacket.

“Thought you weren’t coming back,” you say short of snidely, circling back around to look at him, “Ever.”

That surprisingly soft mouth of his falls open as he starts to retort but stops short. His eyes trace you in your shorts and tank top. He doesn’t have to tell you why.

Doesn’t matter. You’re going to make him tell you why. You’re getting tired of this game.

“Say it.”

He looks at you like he’s caught between surprise and annoyance, narrowing his eyes just slightly as he wets that lower lip. His laying down of his coat slows as though he’s questioning that he’ll be staying. Maybe he’s questioning the wisdom of all this anyway like he usually seems to be.

“ _Say it_ ,” you insist again, your jaw set as you stare back at him. That’s how you have to treat dogs that are still unpredictable to you – you make eye contact and you back them down. They have to understand that you’re in control, even if you know in your heart that you aren’t.

“Th’fuck are you askin’ me?” he grumbles through something like surprise at your gall but his eyes dart down to the floor for only a second, long enough for you to know he knows he’s being called out. He knows why he’s here. You know why he’s here. Now he just has to quit bullshitting.

“Say exactly why you’re here,” you fire back quick and steady, “Say it. Say ‘I need it.’”

The snort-scoff tandem is almost a laugh as he looks around to some invisible audience – can you believe this chick? – and he starts to reach back down for his coat but you cut off his space, stepping forward enough the he can’t ignore you. You know he’s self conscious with those burning cheeks and the way he can’t stare back at you like he usually does; he’s mad at himself. Clearly.

“You scared? Fuckin’ say it.” He tries to look away again and it’s so dog-like that you can’t help but be startled by how accurate your instincts on him seem to have always been. “You don’t get to pretend you don’t know why. Give me that.”

That jaw flexes as he summons himself back up, cutting his eyes to your face and holding. This is not a man who is scared of much of anything. This is not a man who still registers fear like a normal animal. He’s not scared of you in the real sense, of course, he could destroy you if he wanted to but he’s a Good Dog and he’s got an awful need somewhere under all that pretend-peopling he does.

The stare doesn’t break. You’ve got him. He says it almost through clenched teeth, showing you just how much he resents it. To wit, how much he resents that he _likes_ it.

“I need it.”

That’s all he had to do. He acknowledged who the real boss is. Now he gets to be the boss because you told him he could.

Your faces loom as close as they can with the height difference; when you lean in so does he but he yields to your hesitation, stopping as you stop instead of flat out mauling your mouth like he’s done before. He flickers that look from your lips to your eyes like he’s still waiting. Sitting like a good boy, waiting for his treat. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, suggesting so casual it’s like none of this had happened at all.

“Then come take it.”

The two of you don’t even make it to the bed. He takes you down right there on the couch, his kisses the same bruising force that you suspect he does most everything with. This man can be so gentle when he needs to – he was as careful with you the first night as he might have been with a China teacup but you had shown him very quickly that that was not how you like to be handled, so that’s how he’s handled you ever since. Your teeth knock and he doesn’t care.

Your best recourse is to just move wherever he puts you in the scramble of limbs and pulling of fabric that is the tornado you both devolve into. He slings you over his lap and yanks down your shorts and you make a noise like shock, hands grabbing to the cushions as you look back over your shoulder at him.

Frank doesn’t even look at you but senses that look, “You know what to do if you really don’t like it.”

Yep. All you have to say is “stop”. He responds best to simple commands after all, like any animal.

That giant hand slides rough callouses over the soft skin of your ass and he groans, his cock rock hard against his thigh and under your belly. You’re moaning by the time he rears back and pops you with the most crisp, sharp slap that echoes across your apartment; you yelp in surprise and he hisses, using his free hand to grab your hip and keep you anchored at the lower half.

“Uh huh, gonna run your mouth you’re gonna get exactly what you’re askin’ me for.”

Another slap stings so much it puts tears in your eyes, the nerves in your ass cheek screaming. You’re so fucking slick-wet. Your outcry is a whimper.

“Oh yeah?” he askes roughly, rubbing his hand over the hot reddening flesh before he administers another harsh slap to the other cheek, “ _Say it_ , then. All you gotta do is say it.”

He’s mocking you. Your thighs tremble when he brings his hand down again two, three, four more times right at your pussy, getting both cheeks as the center of his palm smacks your lips. You know his hand is coming away wet because he huffs that laugh and you hear him grumble a little satisfaction to himself when he licks his palm clean.

“Say it, girl. Fuckin’ ask me for what you want or you’re not gonna get it. Ain’t that how it works?”

The moan that rips out of you is half a growl of defiance and you reach back to blindly grab at him, nails out. He catches your wrist with his free hand and pins it to your back, not pulling hard enough to hurt you but certainly keeping you from moving it again. You can’t help it – your forehead thunks to the arm of the couch and you almost laugh through your moan because the next slap across your ass and cunt feels so good you could cry. He’s turning the tables to reclaim whatever meager power he pretends he has here but you both know why he’s got you red-assed across his lap on the couch: because you fucking made him.

“Nothin’?” he asks with another pop of his palm but this time he keeps it flush against your spread, bare cunt, starts rubbing the flat of his palm against the slickness of you, “It doesn’t feel like you’re real fuckin’ mad about it, does it? Now I told you to fuckin’ ask me.”

The next slap does it. “Please” comes sputtering up out of your mouth but you bite back the rest, refusing to hand it over just yet. He’s enjoying this and so are you, to put it lightly.

“Fine then, have it your way,” he growls and lets go of your wrist, grabbing the back of your neck and pressing your cheek harder into the couch, “Open your mouth. Now.”

You part your lips just a little and he forces in two fingers and then three until you almost gag, flat against your tongue while his other hand keeps rubbing your pussy.

“Suck on ‘em til you got somethin’ to say” comes the order and you oblige, eyes rolling closed when he slaps that wet hand across your ass cheeks again, and again, and again. They’re stinging so badly that they’re going numb now and when he stops to caress across the tormented skin you moan around his fingers at how sweet it feels, how relieving. He presses down on your tongue, strokes the pads of his fingers along the wet velvet to make you suck them like you do his cock.

Frank’s voice is getting raw, breaking under the strain of what you know is crushing desire. This first round isn’t gonna last long, especially if he keeps dragging out the foreplay. Wriggling as much as you can from your vantage, you start trying to spit his fingers out to acquiesce.

He gets in one more good smack to your spread cunt and makes you jump before he relents enough to take his fingers out of your mouth, “Got anything I need to hear?”

“I need it,” you spit it at him with a glare over your shoulder though you’re smirking, remembering his face when he finally broke and said it, “I need it. Give it to me.”

“Need _what_ now?” his thumb works over your clit for a moment and you shudder, try to close your legs but he forces them back open, “Nope, that ain’t an answer, girl. Tell me what you need. Say ‘Frank, I need your cock in me.’ There’s a start.”

You barely get his name out and he’s working two fingers into your aching cunt, making you falter and sigh as you clench down hard on them. Fucker.

“Frank,” you start shakily, moaning when he starts to stroke at that sweet little spot just an inch or so up, and finally it spills out nearly in one breath, “I need your cock, fuck, I need your cock or your mouth or something just fucking let me come already you fuckin’ asshole, god…”

He laughs and the sound almost makes you afraid in some primal way, a good fear. A fear that makes your toes curl and your walls tighten enough around his fingers that he hisses in appreciation as he withdraws them. “C’mon, get on the floor, ass up for me.”

It’s a graceless tumble to the floor before you can get situated in front of him, knees and palms in the plush carpet as you crawl out, letting your legs slide apart. A moan slips out of him that seems almost too soft for his gravelly throat but then he’s down on the floor, taking your ass in both hands while he smashes his face against you and tongues at whatever he can reach and you forget to think about it. It’s all too brief and then he’s on his knees behind you, pushing your tank top up your back, finally pulling off his own shirt and undoing his belt with what you assume later is regular speed but feels like he’s moving through molasses.

Impatiently, you stretch out to rest on your elbows, arch your back that much more. He groans at the sight and then he’s flush to your ass and thighs, the head of that gorgeous, huge cock against the ridiculous wet of your pussy.

“Yeah?” he asks through so much strain it sounds like it’s through his teeth, “Hard n’ fast?”

“Hard n’ fast,” you echo back, bracing for the shove in and when it comes it’s so good you could cry.

You’re so swollen and sore that the first push in – and he goes deep, no time wasted – hurts in the best fucking way, an ache that corkscrews up your spine and quickly melts into nothing but pleasure. Frank isn’t taking it easy; his knees dig into the carpet behind yours and his hands grab your hips roughly to start snatching you back onto his granite-hard cock. You can hear your flesh slapping against his, feel his balls hitting you on every swing and it’s so perfect, so good that all you can do is try to dig your fingers into the carpet for purchase while you stay arched hard, meet his thrusts with a push back until he’s going too fast for you and all you can do it _take it, take it, take it_ the way he’s hissing at you through his clenched jaw to do.

He can talk all the game he wants about this being for him but he slips one hand between your legs nonetheless to rub your clit just rough enough, not a falter in his rhythm as he pounds into you with that ruthless, relentless rhythm you love. Brutish. Nasty. Animalistic. Your brain won’t turn these words loose and each repetition brings you closer and closer. Brutish. Nasty. Animalistic.

“Fuckin’ animal,” you seethe at him, your face nearly in the carpet.

It breaks some wall of restraint inside of him. One hand shoots up to grab your throat from behind. He doubles over you, biting hard at the back of your shoulder as he grabs one of your wrists to keep it pinned, his torso now flush to yours. Your free hand goes straight to your clit and the one around your throat pulses little squeezes.

He growls, snarls when you come in a gush around his cock; you nearly gasp a mouthful of carpet when he pulls out and comes down your back, hot ribbons of cum landing across your skin while he roars satisfaction to the ceiling.

The apartment goes quiet except the both of you panting as you try to catch your respective breaths, his hand caressing at the stinging red of your ass. Once the adrenaline comes down, that shit is really going to hurt. It’s almost apologetic but you sigh a deeply satisfied sigh, starting to push back up onto your elbows and laughing soft.

“Good boy.”

He slaps your ass one more time for good measure, but he almost laughs. Good boy indeed.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me at http://noccalula-writes.tumblr.com - I've got one ear open for Frank Castle drabble requests (stipulations may apply but I promise they're good stipulations)


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